


neither angels nor demons

by LadyCharity



Category: Black Mirror (TV), Black Mirror: Bandersnatch (2018)
Genre: Anxiety, Canon Divergent, Fix-It, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hugs, Unreliable Narrator, no one dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-27 15:07:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20409766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyCharity/pseuds/LadyCharity
Summary: This whole time Stefan dreaded that something wicked was dictating his path, that he would be driven down a path leaving behind bloodied bodies whilst kicking and screaming. But the truth was that he was going down this road himself.In which Stefan chooses his father.





	neither angels nor demons

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens if you let me extrapolate what happens after you choose 'BACK OFF' rather than 'KILL DAD.' Why oh why do we have to kill the dad?? 
> 
> My interpretation of the Bandersnatch verse and its nuances. Whether or not you, the viewer, actually exists in this universe is, well, undefined. I just really, really, really wanted to write a fix it fic that particularly involved Stefan's father.

As his father stroked his head, gingerly cradling him in his own shaking hands as if his son were a crushed bird, Stefan could only think of how close he came to returning the favour by smashing his father’s skull with an ashtray. 

He dug his fingernails into his wrist, pleading that the sting in his skin would cry hold, hold. In truth, his hands could not lift the ashtray from the counter even if he tried, but in his head he could not stop picturing his father pleading for his life while Stefan bashed his head in until he stopped moving. 

“It’s going to be okay,” Peter said. His fingers tightened on Stefan’s back. “It’s okay, Stefan.”

Stefan could feel the rim of Peter’s glasses in his hair, his hand on his back, and all of a sudden he felt five years old again, too small for even his own body that no longer felt like his. Even with the terror that he would not be able to stop himself from doing something unspeakably horrific, all he wanted in that moment was for his parents to hold him. 

“You can’t,” Stefan said. “I could hurt you. I’ll hurt you.” 

He did not even know to whom he should beg if he could. If the one who was controlling him and measuring each of his steps was benevolent or cruel, if they would even listen. But Peter wasn’t listening to him; he would not leave him.

“I’ve got you,” Peter said. Stefan squeezed his eyes shut. “You’re safe, Stefan. I’ve got you.” 

But you’re not, Stefan wanted to say. Don’t you understand what I mean? But Peter did not run away as he should, and stayed there holding Stefan until Stefan could not hold himself up on his own anymore.

Dr Haynes always had a sad expression in her eyes. It wasn’t her fault; she could not help the way her eyebrows slanted or the shape of her eyes that looked perpetually as if she was watching a tearjerking movie. Particularly when she smiled, or affirmed Stefan on progress, or even made a joke to ease the nervous tension in Stefan’s chest, there was an underlying air of sorrow that coloured her eyes, and made Stefan feel foolish for believing her. 

So he would rather ring her today, than look her in the eye and tell her that he was falling apart. He sat huddled on the corner of the sofa with the phone pressed against his ear, his free hand clamped under his knee. Although Peter promised privacy, Stefan swore that he could hear bated breath on the other side of the closed door. 

“And then the brackets came up on my computer screen,” Stefan said. He couldn’t recognise the sound of his own voice. He didn’t think he was ever this afraid before. “The same--it’s the symbol Jerome F Davies used to map out his book. It’s the same that I use for the game. I asked for a sign and--and it showed up.” 

“If it’s the same symbol you use for your game,” said Dr Haynes, “would it have been a coding error?”

“No,” Stefan said. “No, you don’t--I use it to write it all out. But it doesn’t show up in the code like that. The computer couldn’t have thought of that on its own. Something _ else _ put it there. It’s the same sign he painted on the walls.”

“Who painted on the walls?” 

“Jerome F Davies. When he cut his wife’s head off, he painted the walls with her blood with that symbol.” Stefan could feel his lungs constrict again. He wanted to put his hand on his chest, but he kept it tightly wedged under his leg until it tingled. “Because he believed--he was being controlled. That someone made him do that against his will, so he kept painting it and painting it--” 

“Do you believe that?” said Dr Haynes. 

“What?” said Stefan.

“Do you believe that Davies did not have free will to kill or not kill his wife?” 

Stefan swallowed hard. The biography from WH Smith had not been shy with the photographs of Davies’ crime. It was so horrifying that it distracted Stefan from the point that it came from a cruel and violent murder. Davies’ wife must have trusted him so much, and must have been terrified when it happened. Stefan’s chest hurt.

“I don’t know,” he said in a strained voice. “She still died. It’s still wrong. But I don’t know. He was mental. Even if it was his choice, he had gone mad. He wasn’t himself. He couldn’t control himself either way, could he?” 

“But what about me?” said Dr Haynes. “Do you think that it wasn’t my decision to, say, wear a red jumper this morning? Or to say anything that I’m saying to you now? Do you think I am not choosing to do what I’m doing now?” 

“You--” Stefan paused. He didn’t remember deciding to do something so innocuous. He didn’t even remember choosing to brush his teeth this morning, other than that he had. “I don’t know. Do you feel that, ever? That you do things you don’t know why you chose them? Think things that you don’t know where they came from?” 

“No one is in complete control of themselves, Stefan,” said Dr Haynes. “We can’t control our emotions, but that doesn’t mean someone else is. And sometimes we have impulses or thoughts that are triggered without us knowing how we came to that conclusion. That’s part of how our brains are wired.”

“Yes, to survive,” Stefan said. “For fight-or-flight instincts, not to--not to hurt people.” 

His voice trailed off, ashamed. He prayed that his father did not hear that. 

“Do you want to hurt people?” said Dr Haynes. 

Stefan’s nose stung. When he opened his mouth, he found his throat to be blocked painfully, and he could only bow his head. Stefan didn’t realise that he was running his free hand through his hair until a jolt of fear stung him. Either everyone else was just as trapped and helpless as he was, or he was completely alone. 

“I don’t want to,” he choked out. “I don’t want to but I do. I think about doing awful things. And I don’t know where it came from and I don’t want to do them but I almost did.” 

His vision blurred, and he buried his face in his knees. Would the one who was watching and controlling him take pity on him? Please, he thought, don’t let me do anything bad. Please don’t make me hurt anyone. 

“I don’t know what’s going on,” he said. He hated that he wanted to cry. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” 

“Stefan,” Dr Haynes said, and her voice was kind. “It sounds to me like you’re having intrusive thoughts. Which is very normal to have; we all have it. The fact that you react aversely to it is normal as well.”

But he wasn’t averse to it, not immediately. His hand had strained for the ashtray, he had to pin himself down to keep from grabbing it. He yelled at his father, and he couldn’t remember if he had felt any vindictive pleasure when he did so. Was he being controlled, or was he simply evil? How did he know that those darker impulses weren’t his true self, and the possible overarching influence of his life choices was actually the only thing stopping him from cruelty? 

“Could you share with me what these thoughts are?” said Dr Haynes.

“No,” Stefan said immediately. “No, I can’t.” 

A beat. “That’s okay,” Dr Haynes said. “But you needn’t feel guilty for them. Who you are is not your first instinct.” 

Stefan pressed his sleeve against his eyes. He bit back a sob, and the more that he tried to hold back his cries the more bone-weary he felt, this constant wrestling of a force more powerful than he that he did not even know what it was. He was afraid to ask her if this was simply how it was going to be for the rest of his life, this unshakable uncertainty that he would one day watch himself kill his father. 

“Do you remember when this started?” said Dr Haynes. “Have you always felt this way?” 

“No,” Stefan said. He tried to clear his throat. “When I started working on the game.”

“I think,” Dr Haynes said, “that it would be a good idea for you to take a break from working on the game. You need to rest, Stefan, and I don’t think you’ve been giving yourself that at all.” 

“I’m almost finished,” Stefan said. “I’m so close. I just need to fix something by today. Then it’ll be done with. But I need to finish it.” 

“You still need time to rest,” said Dr Haynes. 

“You don’t understand,” Stefan said. “I have to finish it. I’m already past deadline. I promised. I can’t--I can’t give it up now. If I don’t finish it, it’s over.” 

Dr Haynes sighed. Stefan’s head hurt, and his whole body followed en suite, ashamed with the fact that he wanted nothing more than to lie down forever.

“I do think it’s a good idea to start your rest immediately,” said Dr Haynes. “I can write you a doctor’s note. That should be enough for Tuckersoft to give you some leeway. They can’t argue against a doctor, can they?” 

“I can get it done,” Stefan pleaded. “I have to. They might drop my project entirely if I don’t give it to them in time, doctor’s note or not. I can get it done in a day. Please.” 

“Stefan, no game is worth your life,” said Dr Haynes. “And it _ is _your life. Your health has been suffering, and it is more important.” 

Stefan nearly retorted, but stopped himself at the last moment. He gripped the phone tightly, until he could hear his own pulse more loudly than her breath. 

“I’ll write out a doctor’s note for you,” Dr Haynes said resolutely. “And if you or your father would like to pick it up so you can have it immediately, I’ll stay at the office until you do.” 

Stefan let go of his breath. There was still so much on his chest, in his mind, but he did not know how to put them into words that Dr Haynes would understand. Even if he could wrestle language to fully encompass his thoughts, he did not think that she would. 

“How about we try something this week as well?” said Dr Haynes. “If you find yourself about to do something that you don’t understand why you want to do it, give yourself a moment to stop and ask why. We don’t do things without reason, even if we don’t understand it in the moment. Do you think that would help you?” 

“I don’t know,” said Stefan. He knew that he was being exhausting, but he did not know what else to say. “I could try.”

“That’s all you need to do,” Dr Haynes said. “And Stefan, please. Make time to rest. You’ve been pouring all your energy into this game, and it doesn’t seem like it’s giving you anything back.” 

He never considered that he was supposed to ask anything from it. He set the phone back into the receiver and rested his head against the armrest. He had dreaded that calling Dr Haynes would affirm his fears or confuse him even further. Instead, all he felt was drained. 

Peter had the tact to wait several minutes before precariously poking his head through the door. Stefan did not acknowledge Peter’s presence even when he sat down on the sofa next to him, resting a hand on Stefan’s foot. 

“How’d it go?” Peter asked, as always. 

Stefan did not respond immediately. He waited for an impulse of mysterious origin, a split second decision to either placate his father’s worries or to push him further away. Instead, his mind felt numb and slow, and he realised grimly that even when he was given a choice, he could not even come up with a good one.

“She’s writing me a doctor’s note,” he said. 

Peter’s thumb delicately circled over the bone of Stefan’s ankle. The motion made Stefan’s stomach sink. He wanted to be alone, but at the same time he couldn’t bear it. 

“She said we can pick it up anytime,” he continued. “In case I need to tell Tucker that I can’t make the deadline.” 

“I think that’s a good idea,” Peter said. 

Of course you would, Stefan thought. 

He closed his eyes, hoping that it would subside the pain in his head. For years his dreams had been unsettling, and the line between subconscious and reality breaking like shattered glass when he woke rather than the soft slip that others enjoyed. But at least in his sleep, if he tried hard enough, he could have control of his dreams. At least in his sleep, he could do nothing. 

“I can pick it up for you?” Peter said.

Stefan opened his eyes again. The moment he did, his heart jolted, and he did not realise that he had expected something frightening until he felt his racing pulse slow to an uneasy rate against the cushion. 

“Thank you,” he said in a small voice. 

Peter fetched his coat. Stefan did not move from the sofa, his hands tucked under his arms as if he was cold. Peter passed by the sofa, and as he reached out a hand to touch Stefan’s head, Stefan flinched instinctively. Peter drew his hand back, and Stefan avoided looking at the expression on his face. 

“Will you be all right here?” Peter said.

Stefan nodded. Peter opened his mouth, then closed it half-heartedly. He took the keys to the car and left the house. Stefan stayed still until he heard the click of the lock of the front door, and then he pushed himself up to sit. 

It would take Peter fifteen minutes to drive to the clinic, and no doubt he would try to wheedle some advice or wisdom from Dr Haynes whilst he was there, confidentiality be damned. It wasn’t much time, but it would be better than nothing. Stefan headed straight to his bedroom, his heart pounding heavier with each step. He would rest today, he told himself, but he could finish Bandersnatch today as well. 

The bedroom door was still ajar from when he rushed out of it in terror. He could hear the whirring of the overworked computer from the hallway, and Stefan was seized with the dread that the computer, or whatever forces were at work, would try to communicate with him again. He wished that he had never asked for a sign, when receiving one only terrified him further. With a trembling hand he pushed the bedroom door further open, and the white light of the computer and the grey sunlight spilled forth. It made him wince. 

The computer screen was blank, accusingly docile. For a moment Stefan wondered if perhaps he had imagined the whole thing, that his mind was playing tricks on him by reflecting the symbol that he had been drawing and reading for months like some sort of mirage. It did not change the fact that he stood frozen at the doorway, one foot out as if it would make a difference if he made a run for it. 

Mustering his courage, he approached his desk and picked up his copy of _ Bandersnatch _. The pages were well dog-eared by now, notes scribbled in the margins in such a cramped handwriting that they were barely legible. This was something he regretted doing, even though it was far too late to do anything about it. Writing in the book made it steadily more his book than his mother’s. He couldn’t help but feel as if he had stolen it. 

Stefan sat down at his desk, staring at the screen. The headache in the back of his head and the back of his eyes hadn’t fully gone away since he started programming the damn thing. He shifted his half-finished notes to complete the pathway in front of him before raising a hand to switch the computer back on, but his fingers froze right as they hovered over the power button. For a moment Stefan panicked that the one controlling him was barring him from finishing, handcuffing him to its will. But the truth was that he was afraid of what he would see. 

“Come on,” he said through gritted teeth. “Come on, let’s _ go _.” 

But his stomach twisted until it ached. Without thinking, he clenched his hand into a fist and slammed it against the side of his head. 

“Come on!” he said. 

The ache in his head sparked him before quickly subsiding. It was enough to get him to turn the computer back on. He blinked blearily, desperate for sleep, but he knew that he could finish it. He was so close. 

The code was meshing together, and he kept making typos that he hadn’t noticed until he tried to run the game again, and would have to go back to search it out amongst the hundreds of thousands of brackets and backslashes. Anger mixed with exhaustion, and the urge to drive his fist into the computer screen was tempered only when he could slam his fist into his own leg, expelling the energy elsewhere. 

Suddenly, the phone rang. Stefan had the mind to ignore it, to put his headphones over his ears and drown it out, but he was already rising from his chair. He hadn’t time to ask himself what the point was before he rushed to the living room to answer it. 

“_ Stefan _ .” Tucker’s voice shot anxiety through Stefan’s nerves. “ _ Is the game going to be ready or not _?” 

The doorbell rang. Stefan’s hands shook over the keyboard. Even when he tried to grip one hand over the other, they wouldn’t stop. His fingers reached automatically for a cuppa on the desk, only to remember that there wasn’t one. Smacking his dry lips, he continued working.

The doorbell rang again. Stefan clenched his teeth until his jaws hurt. He pushed aside his chair and dragged himself to the door. It couldn’t be his father, and post had already come round. The only person that it could be would be--

“Wotcher,” Colin said when Stefan swung the door open.

To be honest, not him. Stefan stared dumbly at Colin, with his skinny blunt between his teeth and his thin eyebrows raised in a way that felt naturally accusatory, even though Colin was generally speaking easygoing. 

“You going to let me in or not?” he said. 

“I--sure.” 

Stefan stepped aside to make room for Colin. Colin dropped his blunt at his feet and ground it out with his heel before entering the home. 

“You didn’t have to,” Stefan said. “My dad smokes all the time. Ashtrays all over.”

“Doesn’t smoke this, I would assume,” Colin said. He strode into the kitchen. “Where is he, anyway?” 

“Dad?” said Stefan. He locked the door behind Colin. “He’s out. Running an errand for me. Why?”

Colin gave Stefan an appraising look. 

“Just thought he might have been around,” Colin said. 

Stefan suddenly felt mortified of the state of himself, with the jumper he had worn two days straight and the tremors still going through the back of his hand. 

“I’ll make you a cup of tea,” he said. 

Colin waved a hand. 

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said. “But I can’t have someone who looks like shit fixing me a cuppa. Sit down.” 

Stefan’s face burned. Colin located the kettle and mugs with surprising ease and started the water boiling on the hob. 

“Sorry,” Stefan said. “Is there a reason why you’re here?” 

“You want the short answer or the long one?” Colin said. 

Stefan considered this.

“Short,” he said. 

“Fair enough,” Colin said. He fished out teabags from the cupboard. “Tucker wants me to collect.” 

Stefan’s heart sank. He knew it would be difficult enough to tell Tucker that he was failing. But to tell it to his role model? 

“I also thought I’d come around,” Colin said, “to make sure you weren’t getting yourself into any trouble.”

“What sort of trouble?” Stefan said.

Colin looked out towards the garden. He shrugged. 

“Deadlines can make you do mental things,” he said. “Although you seem to be holding up rather all right this time.” 

Stefan laughed instinctively. 

“So this is normal, then, isn’t it?” he said. “This running around, losing control, trying to finish. I was afraid--I wasn’t sure if maybe this was--so you get it too?”

“Oh, God no,” said Colin. “I mean, taking _ Bandersnatch _ into consideration you seem to be holding up better than you could be. If you’re talking about programming in general, you’re losing your shit.” 

Stefan shut his mouth. Colin poured the hot water into the mugs. 

“I’m almost done,” Stefan said. “I have to. I don’t--I don’t think I can keep doing this.” 

Colin didn’t say anything. He slid the cuppa towards Stefan, who took it gratefully. 

“Wish I could say you didn’t have to,” Colin said. 

Stefan closed his eyes, letting the steam nuzzle him. 

“You know what your problem is, mate?” said Colin.

“You have no idea,” Stefan said.

Colin snorted. 

“You’re trying too hard to give the player freedom,” he said. “If you’re going to make a new path for every choice that the player makes, of course you’ll burn out. The bloody computer is going to burn out. No one has that much freedom, so why bother trying to manufacture it?” 

Stefan opened his eyes and looked up to Colin, who was helping himself to a tin of McVities. 

“No one has the freedom?” he said.

Colin nodded. 

“Our paths are already set for us,” Colin said. “No matter what we choose. What we are bound to do, there’s no avoiding. All the paths will converge to that.”

“You mean like fate?” said Stefan uneasily. “Destiny?” 

“Sounds better dressed up like that, doesn’t it?” Colin said.

Stefan took a sip of his tea before realising that he hadn’t added any milk to it. The fridge was only two paces away but he found that he hadn’t the willpower to be bothered. His chest felt heavy, as if a great stone was gradually crushing it with each breath he took, and his lungs were too tired to push them off. 

“You know how you want to end the story, don’t you?” Colin said. “So just twist your way to it.” 

“I can’t,” Stefan said. “That’s not how it’s like in the book.” 

“I know,” said Colin. “But if people wanted the full story of _ Bandersnatch _, they’d just read the book, wouldn’t they? You have some creative license.” 

“No,” Stefan said, louder this time. “I’m not going to cheat. It’s important that it goes how the book goes. I’m not going to give up halfway. I need to--it has to be done right. Accurately.” 

“Do you think Nohzdyve is an accurate depiction of falling off a building?” said Colin.

“I don’t know,” Stefan said irately. “I never fell off a building before, have I?”

Colin watched Stefan over the rim of his mug, before appearing to change his mind about something and drinking his tea instead. 

“Well, it’s your choice,” Colin said. “But you were the one who said you’d get it done by the end of today. So whatever gets you there--” He took another bite of a biscuit. “What got you so interested in _ Bandersnatch _, anyway?” 

Stefan’s heart twinged. He wanted to melt in his seat, and gather into a puddle on the kitchen floor. 

“It’s just an old book I had found,” Stefan said. He hesitated. “In my mum’s things.” 

“She’s got an interesting taste,” Colin said. 

Stefan took in a deep breath. He felt as if no amount of breathing could calm his chest, and each heavy heartbeat felt so laborious that it would better if it stopped, if only to give him a break. 

“I need to do this right,” Stefan said. “The way that it was meant to be.”

“But what if it’s impossible?” Colin said.

He did not mean it cruelly. Colin may be rough on the edges, but he was never cruel. But before Stefan knew it, his tea spattered on the tiles. When he looked down at his hands he saw his fingers were gnarled and shaking, gripping the mug until either it would break or his bones would. He dropped the mug immediately, and it shattered at his feet. 

Colin did not even wince. He ran a hand over the top of his head resignedly.

“Well,” he said. “I guess there’s no avoiding it, is there?” 

Stefan backed away until he hit the refrigerator. He gripped his wrist, as if it would suddenly leap out towards a knife hanging along the wall if he was not careful. 

“Go, Colin,” Stefan whispered. “I’m not in control. I’m not--something’s wrong with me. You need to go.” 

“Nothing is wrong with you,” Colin said, reaching for the largest shard of the broken mug from the floor. “It’s the way it is.”

“It isn’t,” said Stefan. “Don’t say that. This--this isn’t right.” 

“You think you can fight this?” said Colin. “If it’s what is meant to happen, it’s inevitable--”

“I was angry,” Stefan said.

This made Colin stop short. Stefan closed his eyes, choking back a cry. Shame seemed to pour out from his throat, from his mouth, burning him like acid. He wished it would dissolve him, but it only left him more exposed and ugly than before.

“I was angry at you,” Stefan said. “That’s why I--it wasn’t because I was being made to. I wasn’t following something else’s orders. You said it would be impossible and I couldn’t--I got so furious with you that I--” 

He buried his face in his hands. This whole time he dreaded that something wicked was dictating his path, that he would be driven down a path leaving behind bloodied bodies whilst kicking and screaming. But the truth was that he was the one taking himself down there, led by the festering in his heart. He _ needed _ something other than himself to control his actions, something good and righteous, before he fucked it all up. 

Stefan felt hands on his shoulders, pulling him from the refrigerator and pushing him towards the carpeted living room. Colin led him to the sofa, pushing him to sit down. Stefan couldn’t bring himself to lift his face from his hands, and he couldn’t keep track of the minutes that it took before his breathing rate returned to something normal. 

“You’re all right,” Colin said briefly. 

Stefan shakily lowered his hands to his lap. He never felt so tired and terrified at the same time. 

“I’m sorry,” Stefan whispered. 

“Cheers,” Colin said. “There’s no colour left in your face.” 

Stefan leaned back in the sofa. He could feel his bottom lip shaking. 

“You’re a craftsman,” said Colin. “I get it. But even if you can’t finish it, it isn’t the end of the world. And that’s coming from me.” 

“It’s the last thing I have of hers,” Stefan said.

Colin didn’t say anything. Stefan could only look down at his guilty hands. They had stopped shaking now, but they hadn’t the strength to even curl into a fist. 

“It’s the only thing I can give back to her,” he said. “I don’t even have the damn rabbit anymore. No toy is worth someone’s life and I still chose it over her, didn’t I? I lost her--I sent her away.” 

His face crumpled. It should have been no surprise to him that these terrible temptations and moments were not directed to people at random, but to the ones with the misfortune to come too close. There was no outside force that he could blame anymore, neither angels nor demons he could accuse. For should they exist they were not the ones who planted the anger and resentment and foolishness that grew tenfold from the tiny seed in his heart. 

Colin didn’t say anything. If it weren’t for the dip in the sofa cushion on which Colin’s hand rested, Stefan would have thought that he had long gone and left him alone. But Colin still crouched in front of him, simply keeping quiet until Stefan was too tired to cry anymore. 

“You don’t have to work on _ Bandersnatch _on your own,” Colin said. He rose to his feet. “I think I can take care of the bugs for you.” 

It was a clumsy attempt for comfort, but Stefan was grateful for it. Colin could be offering to cook him some beans and toast and it would still be the same. He didn’t want to be alone, but he knew that he needed to be. 

“Good, yeah?” said Colin. “I’ll look into it and take care of it. If it isn’t to your liking, take it out. But,” he pressed his lips together, “just know. It is a game, Stefan. It’s real, but it is a game, not the past.” 

Stefan dipped his head in a nod but didn’t say more. Colin paused, maybe in hesitation, before turning to the hallway towards Stefan’s bedroom. Stefan didn’t think to offer Colin directions to the right room; Colin seemed to know his way around. 

He could hear the dripping tap in the kitchen. It was the only sound that Stefan could notice. That, and what sounded like the Bermuda Triangle record that Colin must be putting on in his room. Otherwise, he felt as if he was being swallowed whole by a deep numbness. He didn’t want to move, and he did not think that he could even if he tried. 

It didn’t matter to him, anymore, whether his actions came from a dark and terrible force. Whether he could be blamed for murder or anything at all. It did not change the fact that he would have hurt someone, would have ended someone’s life whether it was fated or not. He had lost his mother, was losing himself, and there seemed no end to this pit in which he was falling. 

He sank down on the sofa, struggling to breathe until it hurt his ribs. He wanted to sleep. He didn’t want to lift his head. He felt that he would crumble into dust if he tried. 

The sounds of Bermuda Triangle were muffling up, fading into a quiet nothing. His lungs felt too tired to fight for air, and the heavy heartbeat in his chest dragged its feet until it too fell on its knees. Stefan could not help but close his eyes.

His mother’s hand was as soft as he remembered. She smelled of sweet perfume when Stefan buried his face in her stomach in a hug. He never wanted to let her go. Maybe now he never will have to. 

One hand in hers, and the other holding onto Rabbit, he followed her to the train station. It was a short walk from their home, but they still would not reach it until twenty till nine. Not with his five-year-old legs trying to catch up, but his mother walked with a patient gait. There was no rush, she said. They would make the eight forty-five. 

Stefan held her hand tighter. He wasn’t afraid, now that it had always been inevitable. 

Wait, something in the back of his head. Wait. 

Stefan stopped. His mother stopped as well, and looked down at him curiously.

What’s the matter, love? she asked. 

Don’t go yet, said the something. Please, don’t go. 

Stefan didn’t turn his head, suddenly afraid of what might be behind him. The voice was so small that it might as well have been in his own mind, speaking in a whispered voice that belonged to no one. Even so, as if he were lucid dreaming, he knew from whom it came. 

Please stay, it said. Stay with me, please. 

Darling, we really ought to get going, his mother said. She gave his hand a playful tug. We can’t make grandad and nan wait too long, can we? 

Stefan nodded. He took another step to follow, but then he stopped. He didn’t know why, but his heart hurt. 

Please, he thought in return. Just let me go. I want to go now. Please let me go. 

Don’t leave, it responded. You’re all that I have. 

Stefan stilled. Why did it beg, when he did no good to stay? All that he did was waste fifteen years resenting and blaming and crushed under the weight of guilt when in reality his mother was always going to die. He gripped his mother’s hand tightly, wishing that she would pull him forward so that his paralysed feet would have no choice. He wanted to follow her, wanted to go with her to the very end. He wanted it all to end. 

You’re all that I have, the voice sobbed. 

Stefan closed his eyes. He knew what he wanted to choose, and the yearning that he had now that he could take it. To hide away the past fifteen years so that they could never happen, and he would never have to know what heartache meant. But in this moment, the one time where he knew he could choose his fate however he liked, he realised that he couldn’t. It wasn’t about choosing what he wanted, but to make the hard choice after all. 

He looked up to his mother. She was beautiful, and still achingly young. His true age couldn’t have been that much younger than she was now. Her eyes were sad, but she still gave him a smile of understanding. 

It’s all right, she said. I’ll go on ahead and wait for you at the station, yeah? 

A lump formed in his throat. He let go of her hand. 

Dad, he said, and the moment he turned his head to look back, everything disappeared. 

There was a hand in his hair. It was not soft, but it was extremely gentle. It almost made Stefan feel safe. 

He took in a breath, and belatedly realised that he could breathe at all, and that it didn’t burden him. The air was chilly, and were it not for the blanket over him he would be shivering. It was then that he pieced together that he was not at home. 

He slowly opened his eyes. The light was bright, and a machine overhead had a blinking light. He blinked once, twice, trying to bring the world back to focus, but his sight was still blurry. He could hear the beeping of the machine keeping his pulse, and he could hear his father weeping. 

Stefan turned his head. Peter’s head was bowed, forehead resting against Stefan’s shoulder. One hand in Stefan’s hair, the other hand holding his. His father’s touch trailed after the ghost of warmth that his mother had left behind. 

“Hi, Dad,” Stefan whispered.

Peter raised his head. His eyes were swollen and red, the glasses foregone. He let out a broken sound that Stefan had never heard from his father before. His lips formed his name, and he drew Stefan closer in his shaking arms on the hospital bed. 

Stefan raised a weak hand and laid it on Peter’s back. He could feel his father’s heartbeat from here. He closed his eyes, and held on tight. 


End file.
